Kill and Run
by Connecticut Yankee
Summary: On the way back from the Plaza, Tom kills Myrtle instead of Daisy, and Nick and Jordan bear witness to it. Tom is beside himself in grief but is unwilling to go to jail or tell Wilson what happened. In a down spiral of desperation and fear, he coerces Nick and Jordan into a promise of silence surrounded by abuse, betrayal, and blackmail.
1. The Longest Night

KILL AND RUN

The Longest Night

I let out a long withheld sigh for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that night as Tom continued on with his verbal rampage. Jordan caught my exhausted gaze as my eyes flickered to meet hers. She had not uttered a word since what was originally slated to be a realizing and fun outing had devolved in a nightmare. The fact of the matter is that this afternoon was a disaster. And the raw shock in Jordan's all seeing eyes and the acid clinging to Tom's words said it all. Despite the distance we had since placed between ourselves and that horrible hour, my heart still threatened to leap from my breast. I sat there thinking what had been on everyone's mind for the remainder of the evening: that it was over. His lifelong obsession and goal that he could caress with his fingertips a mere few hours ago had been violently torn from him in mere seconds. Looking back, I suppose there was always some fraction of me that knew that it was always a gamble, and yet deep down a whole other fraction, equal in size had wanted it to work. No one in the world deserved happiness more than Gatsby, but he had asked her for too much. Any lingering chance he had at that happiness was null and void because she could never leave the man next to me. Because she could never giver he love to the man who had literally built his entire world around her. My mind will never forget the markings of pure agony that Daisy left painted on Gatsby's face and life and I hated her for it. The saddest part of it all was that she would never love him fully and he would never understand or accept that.

"You damned fool." I muttered out in silent agony. It was very short-lived; however, as Tom slandered my neighbor once more. My hands unconsciously dug into my pants leg.

"Where the hell does that low-life get off on trying to cause a row in my house?" Tom ground out at nobody in particular, but I still found myself cutting a dangerous gaze towards my left.

"The only one that was causing a row was you." I might have imagined it, but the coupe seemed to speed up a bit.

"What's all that?" Tom demanded. He turned hi head towards me, but maintained a firm grip on the steering wheel. Apparently my biting words were not imagined either.

"Nothing." I replied back trying to diffuse the situation, but Tom had sensed defiance like a shark would blood. He was ready to go in to a feeding frenzy.

"Nick—", Jordan warned, steely eyes ricocheting between us.

"No no no," he flashed a humorless smile in my direction. "I want to hear this. Go on Nicky. Tell us how I am the bad guy in all of this because the last time I checked, good decent men didn't go around sleeping with other men's' wives!"

The words slid past my lips faster that I could process them.

"I don't' suppose you are a decent man then." If he were not so keen on focusing on the road ahead of us, I am certain he would be glaring at me in anger. Betrayal? Perhaps a mixture of both. Tom had reared back into his seat and taken the expression of one who had just tasted or smelt something foul. He knew exactly what I was getting at and there was no hiding from it. WE passed a particular bump in the road that finally woke Tom from his reverie.

"That is not the same." The silence that followed Tom's statement only highlighted the absurdity of it. I turned on him in disbelief.

"It is exactly the same Tom!" The only difference is that Gatsby actually loves Daisy. Hell he has shown her more love this past couple of months than you have for your entire marriage." A blank look passed over Tom's face, taut like the sea floor when the ocean tugged away from it. Just as quickly a wave of fury came tumbling over him. My breath caught in my throat and I paled.

Suspiciously, he leaned over Jordan, cupping a free hand over his right ear to better hear me, but I know he caught each word and its meaning.

"Months?" I kept my eyes glued to the hundreds of crossed and ridges on my trousers.

"You mean to tell me that—that filthy, bootlegging pauper had been fooling around my wife, your cousin, this entire time, and you knew about it?" All of a sudden I lurch forward and Jordan had latched onto my left arm for dear life as the coupe starts tearing down the pavement with a purpose. I draw her into my side, wrapping a comforting arm around her.

"I always knew there was something off about you, but this? Where do you get the gall to do this to me?"

"I-I", my hands form obscure gestures eventually settling for squeezing Jordan's soft arms, and none to gently, as I fumble for words.

"It does not change the fact that you do not love Daisy!" I shout, voice battling with the crying wind around us. Tom slammed his fists on the dash in a wily fury and the coupe jerked violently to the side. I envied Jordan's sense of security as she buried her face into the crook of my neck.

"I love Daisy! I have loved her since the day I met her and I will be damned if I let you two home wreckers take her away from me!" His voice was so laced in cold malice that I actually cringed.

"What did he promise you anyway? Huh? What did it take for you to lie and go around my back, hm?" I do not know who was trembling more, Jordan or me. We could only cling to one another as the world panned around us. Tom's sudden laughter mingled with the screaming wind. The sound was a painful as his words.

"Was it a couple hundred? Lord knows you don't make any money. Or was it an invite to one of his fancy parties? No wait! I have got it! I'll bet it was a night in his bed. That's all it took for Daisy after all."

"Stop it!"

"What's the matter, Nick?" he cooed in mock concern, he reached a hand out and pinched my face hard. I slapped his arm away and started rambling in a fit of anger and guilt.

"It wasn't like that Tom. I was just trying to…" I broke of lamely. 'I was trying to help Gatsby', I wanted to say. But at what cost? Tom was one hundred percent wrong in his pursuit of another woman in the midst of his marriage. But Gatsby had done the exact same thing, so why was he except from my scorn. Why were his actions permissible instead? Why did I help Gatsby, a mean whom I have only known for a few months over Tom, whom I had known for years? Why did I feel so guilty about going behind Tom's back? Was what he said true? Was Gatsby even my friend or had I been bought as a means to his own ends?

"I was just trying to help," I muttered, but Tom heard me nevertheless. He parted his lips prepared to engage into a new tirade.

In spite of my fear in that moment, I have always wondered what he would have said to me that night. Would he have continued screaming or would he have distributed more accusation in that drunken fervor. And I don't supposed I'll ever know, for the last thing I recall before my head slammed into the dash were the wild and haunted eyes of Myrtle Wilson.


	2. Nightmare

A hand. There was a hand, or fingers rather, fiddling with my hair. Back and forth they carded through and through, nails occasionally grazing my scalp. It did not hurt though, it was vaguely soothing really. The lulling appendage took a moment of pause as I leaned into it, taking solace in the comfort that it offered.

"Did you see that? Oh! He is precious even when he is asleep," an airy and familiar voice giggled from somewhere above. Something or someone shifted near my feet, before settling against them. As it turned out, it happened to be a someone. This one spoke more coolly as they rebuttled,

"We are going to be late if he sleeps any longer." My brow pulled an abrupt frown as something small pressed against my nose, causing it to crinkle. When I first opened my eyes I was not sure what I was seeing, but with time the fog began to fade and my eyes painted an image of my cousin.

"Daisy?" I grumbled out, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Then came that hearty giggle once more, and then a gentle, yet firm tug on my left arm. I resisted a bit, drawing backwards into the safety of the figure behind me, but they would not let me. Small hands guided me back on track and into the far too eager hands of my cousin. But before I could move there a light breath pressed into my ear, like a kiss from a lover.

"Go on." Came the enticing voice. And I did without a moment's hesitation. I let her hands wrap once more about my arms and proceeded to stand. And with that we were off to, well to whatever event the figure behind me was so concerned about missing. We approached and transpired through some passageway with a great chandelier dangling above us, almost as extravagant as the earrings and other jewelry my cousin would receive from her husband. Before we could reach the threshold at the hallway's end that led into what I assumed to be the Buchanan's dining room, ( I had taken enough liberties and visitations to my neighbor's home to know it was not his own), a chilling pair of hands snapped over my eyes effective blocking my vision, and I immediately came to a halt.

"You can't look yet, Nicky. It will ruin the surprise." This voice was that of my cousin's but from somewhere far ahead of me now.

These hands were like no other. They were calloused and yet, the gentlest I had ever felt. Every now and then their thumbs would drift away from their other fingers and trace lazy, icy, patterns about the side of my head. One of the fingers in particular felt smoother and disjointed from all the others, as though they were wearing a ring or band of some sort. Before I could even reach a hand up to touch them, to feel them, they were once more absent from my eyes.

"What surprise?" I called out caught between curiosity and mild humor. And then shock as a smorgasbord of voices rush upon me.

"Happy Birthday!" The mingled voices ring out, and only then am I aware of the light music playing in the background, the sweet smell of strawberries and yellow cake batter tempting my nostrils, and the ring of people surrounding me There are pats on the back, cries of "Congratulations!", and "My how you have grown!" There are grins passed at me along with gifts and gazes that linger for a while. None of which garnered my full attention except a pair of hands that never quite left my presence. Looking backward, I could feel my lips curling into a smile as Gatsby stood gazing down at me with something foreign that I had never seen before, but it made me the happiest I had even been for the longest while.

"Happy Birthday, old sport," came that voice and I was in heave. Head over heels,

ecstatic, elated, everything. I do not know whether he drew me into his embrace or I drew him into mine, but I never wanted to let go. I wrapped my arms about his shoulders and pressed my forehead against his silk suit. And I was taking breaths that got shallower and shallower until was heaving great gulps of air. I tried to concentrate on his heart and it helped to some degree, but for whatever reason, I just—I just couldn't stop crying.

"I'm sorry Jay." I whispered, reaching up a hand to dry my eyes before trying to tidy his suit. I did not mean to cry all over him. And he just smiled down at me without a word. He reached up a hand to thumb away the stray tears that had made their way down my face, before resting it there.

"Do we normally cry at surprise parties, old sport?" he teased, but it had worked in his favor because soon enough we were both laughing, at my expense, but I did not mind. I was, just so very happy and touched, but with a little bit of effort I was able to contain myself and fade back into the roaring bustle that had claimed the Buchanan household.

Buchanan.

I had seen one, but where the other was I could not fathom. He was not with Daisy now and I could not recall his presence in the room mere moments ago. And then came a movement so slight that is still drew me from the celebration; a shifting in the darkness that I could not explain. In the far reaches of the room, obscured by shade and scarce in excitement or any sense of being stood what looked to me a man. He stood stark still and staring ahead. Not at me, no, his back was to my face and I was so utterly confused for there was absolutely nothing significant about the wall, besides the dingy yellow wallpaper that, from its peeling edges, looked about ready to leap from the wall itself.

I played with the contents of a wine glass that had been passed to me sometime during my march of the household. I mindlessly took sips as if hoping the cool red liquor would somehow end my fretting over the man cloaked in that shaded gloom. My right foot crept over my left and like clockwork I was moving, albeit slowly, towards the man. There was sharp tug at my arm before a vice-like grip locked onto my shoulders and turned me away from the mysterious man and into the very heart of fear.

Gatsby had me in that feverous grip but, it was so far removed from what had earlier transpire between us. He was truly on the edge of terror, shaking and battling with some internal villain.

"Nick—," he heaved a great breath, "You have to understand, old sport. It wasn't your fault! It. Wasn't. Your. Fault." He punctuated each word with a gruff shaking of my shoulders. It was so very hard to hear him, no matter how hard he shouted for the very same shouting could be heard from behind me. But that speaker's words could not have been more different.

"You can't hide from me, Nick! You took away my girl. You took away my girl! But you are not going to get away this time. Oh no. This time, I don't care if it's the last thing I do, **_this time_** , you're going to feel every ounce of pain you've put on me. And if that takes me killing every last person you love, so be it."

All of a sudden a hot metallic warmth had penetrated my lips and enveloped my tongue in an unexpected embrace. It glided coolly and unwanted down my throat. The urge to swallow did not immediately register to my mind and so my body lurched before going absolutely rigid. My eyes darted down from the frightened and concerned eyes of Gatsby to the bright red rose blooming impossibly fast from his breast. His lips parted as though to say something to me the no words ever fell past his tongue, just blood.

I screamed.


	3. Tell Me Lies

Chapter 3

TELL ME LIES

A sudden tightness was sitting in my chest and soon there was an eruption of two, three, four coughs marking the cool, stale air in a chain of pale mist. One of Jordan's pale arms rubbed te4nder circles into my tense back while the other was smoothing my hair back from my face. I can remembers feeling her start as I turned my face into her hand, head still resting in her lap.

"Nick? Oh Nick, thank God you're alright." She whispers as she leans over me. There was moisture pooled in her normally bright eyes and not a moment later, a tear leapt from her long lashes and onto my face. And for the first time in her short life, she looked older. Worn, but still scared somehow. I strained, but manage to pull myself upright, gently taking a hold of her shaking arms at the elbows. I searched her misty eyes for answers, words, anything of the sort, but all I received was an aching in my heart as she seemed equally lost. Wordlessly, she tipped over and I accepted her immediately, arms coming up to envelope her. If we were squeezing too hard, neither one of us seemed to mind. I was pulled even closer into her embrace as a sudden shout, loud and animalistic broke throughout the night. And it grew and grew until it completely filled the air, even more than the still blaring horn of the crashed coupe.

Crashed coupe. Navy blue coupe now splotched all over it front with blood. A gory parody of Van Gogh's "The Red Vineyard". My eyes drifted just a few feet over and I was finally met with the source of the screaming. I have never heard so much raw pain and emotion invoked all at once, and from Tom of all people. Big and burly Tom. Tom the Brute, the unfazed, the goddamned polo player. He was sitting on his knees, just in front of Jordan and I in a dark puddle that only recently stopped growing. He was huddled over something broken and frail in the street. My eyes weaved down his shaking frame until they fell onto a pale, thin arm, lying palm up. Its fingers were curled just enough to showcase rosy nails. The pink fabric shrouding its arms was on the verge of falling apart altogether, utterly destroyed by the various ragged breaks and tears along its length. Some of it was even decorated in splashes and splashes of inky red. This was not what stayed with me. What still haunts me today, not the tantalizing beckoning of her hands, tempting me even in death. Or the gaping hole that was once her left breast. No. What stayed with me was her muddy brown eyes that were doomed to stare perpetually into whatever they were fixed upon. And in that moment they were fixed upon me, staring within me.

I lurched violently away from Jordan onto my hands gagging. The glass that found a new home in my palms brought no pain to me, nor the heartburn in my chest, or the hot saliva clinging to the back of my throat. I felt…I felt…Empty.

Tom's screams were all but sobs now, and that neverending gaze is briefly lost on me as he rests his forehead upon her own. He as whispering something against her bloodied lips. Something broke in all of us. I stumbled forward, slowly inching across that gravely and dampened plain until I was kneeling shoulder to shoulder beside Tom. He gave no indication that he heard me, he just continued whispering that same unheard phrase over and over again. His large hands, gruff and threatening a mere few minutes ago, clutched her lifeless ones with all the love in the world it seemed. A stray tear made its way down my haggard and drawn face. Inconsiderate of the looming pain, I brought a hand to Tom's shoulder and squeezed. I doubt it brought any kind of comfort, but it felt the right thing to do in the moment. Neither one of us had ever been exposed to such grief. Not a moment later, he rounded on me and was pulling me into his arms, chest heaving and face wet against my neck.

"I didn't mean it! I swear to God I didn't mean it. Oh God. I didn't mean to!" I shushed him, smoothing a bloodied hand across his shuddering back.

"I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it." Over his heaving shoulders, my eyes latched onto Jordan's. One of her gloved hands has come to rest upon her mouth as she gazed on heartbroken. I don't know if it's for Tom or for Myrtle. Maybe for both. Maybe the entire tragedy of this summer. Her lips part as though to say something before faltering. Instead her eyes travel to her right, and I follow them to the disheveled building looming alongside the site of the accident. Wilson's Garage. There was no car insight and a closed sign clung to the building. No lights were on, no complaints came from the second floor window which had been left opened. My ears were still ringing from the screeching of tires, the one-sided battle between steel and flesh that had just taken place. _And right outside his doorstep_ , I thought. And yet there was not a single reaction, any sign of life from the building. George Wilson was not at home.

"We have to call the police." My mouth finally conjured. Tom's hand curled tightly in my hair.


End file.
